


The Stowaway

by wolfinthethorns



Series: Tall tales from the HMS Scathach [1]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: HMS Scathach, back story, smol!childermass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7839460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfinthethorns/pseuds/wolfinthethorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little vignette playing with headcanon about when and why Childermass had come to be a sailor.</p><p>Content warning for period appropriate casual racism (the character’s voices do not reflect the author’s, I am well aware that the g-word used to describe Romany people is a slur nowadays)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stowaway

_September, 1784_

As the Yorkshire coast faded against the horizon, the bustle aboard the merchant ship _Scathach_ began to settle into familiar routine, and Captain Drummond at last found himself at liberty to tour the deck of his ship. They had set sail from Hull before dawn, and now the early morning North Sea air blew crisp and cool, the previous evening’s thunder storms having blown away the mugginess of the summer. The captain watched with a paternal satisfaction his crew went light-hearted about their duties; Steerman and Big Davey the cook duetting some new ballad, no doubt vulgar, First-Mate Paine reading aloud the headlines of the morning’s newspaper to any that would listen, the back and forth banter of a jolly crew. With a good wind behind them, and a blue sky above them, the run to Oporto would be plain sailing and with a fine reward at the end of it. So it was with a grim inevitability that no sooner had this comfortable thought entered his head, that the sound of a scuffle and an alarm whistle sounded from the aft deck, and Steerman bounded over to report “Upton’s found a stowaway, sir!”

The stowaway, held firmly in Upton’s strong grasp, was a tiny, scrawny, slip of a lad, dressed all in rags, and dark as an Indian from the summer sun. He did not struggle, which was curious in itself, but rather glared defiantly with fierce, dark eyes from out of a tangle of dirty, black hair. The crew, superstitious as sailors ever are, milled around trying to get a look at the strange creature Upton had caught, muttering charms and prayers of protection under their breaths; as the captain approached, Paine ordered them back to their duties, and most had the decency to comply. Now, Captain Drummond regarded himself as a rational man, not concerned as his crew were with old tales of fairy magic and gypsy curses, but in truth there was something unsettling about the boy’s silence. He looked the boy up and down, concluded that this was, at worst, mind-games. “What’s yer name, lad?”, he asked sternly; the boy said nothing, merely scowled. Drummond sighed, wondered if the lad was deaf, daft, or foreign, and cast a despairing look to his First Mate. Paine, who had been regarding the boy like one of those Chinese puzzles he was so fond of, seemed to have hit on an idea, and ever the polyglot tried the only phrase of Romani chib an outsider might ever learn: _“(Do you speak English?)”_

This at least had an effect on the boy, albeit not the one Paine had intended: defiance turned to confusion, “Beggin’ pardon, sir, but I dun’t speak French”, and then, with bewildered horror, “‘ang on, this in’t a French ship is it?”

Paine looked crestfallen at the mundanity of the boy’s thick East Riding accent, and Drummond couldn’t help but laugh; whatever ‘spell’ the urchin had been weaving had been summarily broken. “No, lad, this is a ship of the His Majesty’s Merchant Navy, and I’m her captain,” he said, more gently this time, motioning to Upton to let the boy go, “Now, as you’ve got your tongue back, let’s try that again. What’s yer name?”  
The boy hesitated, rubbing his skinny arms where Upton had grasped them, then spoke, “John, sir.”  
“John what?”  
He glanced around, as if the answer might be found in the grain of the deck’s wood, “John… Black…”, the pitch of his voice rose slightly on the second word, more a question than a statement.  
“And how old are you, John Black?”  
“Thirteen, sir,” he sounded confident this time, but Drummond felt sure this was a second lie: the little bag of bones looked ten at best.  
”And where are your mammy and your daddy?”  
”Dead, sir,”, the defiance was back now.  
“And most importantly, John Black, what in the Black King’s name are you doing on my ship?”  
The boy stared at his feet for a while, “I’m sorry for it, sir, I din’t mean to stow away… only, I was shelterin’ from the storm t’other night and I must’a fallen asleep ‘cus then we were at sea and I can’t swim so I hid an’…”

He was cut off by a derisive snort from Big Davey, who had been loitering nearby, “For pity’s sake, captain, just throw the little gypsy over board and let’s be done with it. Who cares for the rat’s excuses? No one will miss him.”

“I in’t a gypsy!” young John snapped fiercely, “Me mam said me da were a Neopolitan an’ tha’s why I’m dark!”  
“Oh, is that so? Very Italian name that is, _Black_ ,” sneered Big Davey, “You lying little piece of…”  
“Priest cou’n’t spell me da’s name, so he used me mam’s,” the boy shot back.  
“Enough!” barked Drummond, “Davey Jordan, when I want your opinion on how I should run _my_ ship, I’ll ask you for it. And as I ain’t, bugger off and get back to your station. And as for you,” he wagged his finger at young John, who was scowling like a goblin again, “Gypsy or no, I’m not in the mind to go drowning children, even little oiks like you. You’ll work your passage back to Hull, and if you cause me the least bit o’trouble, you better be learning the Portuguesy fast, if you understand my meaning.”

John nodded sullenly.

“Right,” said the captain, “Upton, take him away and show him the ropes. And for the love of Pete find him some clothes that aren’t full of lice, before he spreads ‘em to the rest of the crew.”

Upton nodded, and with a grumbled “Come on,”, roughly shoved the unprotesting boy towards below-decks. As Drummond and Paine watched them go, the First-Mate leant conspiratorially towards his captain.  
“You know, you were considering taking on a cabin boy…” he mused.  
“That creature? You must joking!” laughed Drummond, incredulously.  
Paine shrugged, and studied a splinter in his worn knuckle, “Well, it would be a very charitable act, a very _Christian_ act, to raise up a wretch like young Johnny there from his low beginnings… Quite the act of a gentleman who perhaps showed gratitude for having been raised from low beginnings himself…”  
“I could go off you, y’know.”  
“I’ll leave it with your conscience, sir,” smiled Paine, cheerfully, as he sauntered off back to his duties.


End file.
